


our love is plastic (we'll break it to bits)

by possessedradios



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: (if you dare calling it a relationship), Can we talk about those official character spotify playlists?, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Non-graphic description of sex, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possessedradios/pseuds/possessedradios
Summary: It’s not that you hate yourself, but you respect yourself just enough to not direct your own love at yourself, either.(Warren Kepler is good at a lot of things. Love is not one of them.)





	our love is plastic (we'll break it to bits)

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been talking about this to someone on discord a lot and then I’ve been listening to nothing but the character playlists, and, listen,,  
> I’m not saying Jacobi being helplessly in love is bad (because it’s, in fact, brilliant), but I think we all have it lowkey the wrong way ‘round and also I’m having a lot of feelings about Kepler, he’s awful, I love him?
> 
> Title is taken from “Reflektor” by Arcade Fire, which is, you guessed it, on Kepler’s playlist.
> 
> (… This is my first time writing something for Wolf 359, meaning this fandom doesn’t know yet that I’m a fake writer and all I’m good at is messy wannabe-poetic introspection that would like to be character studies but never quite manages. Also I wrote this in my lunch break on my phone, let me know about typos.)

Your love is loud in all the wrong ways. Being loved by you is being caught up in a crossfire you yourself started, it’s violent impact, it’s casualties, it’s

\- taking apart bombs in a sub-basement, fingers shaking shaking shaking, of course you notice,

\- shitty hotel rooms although you sure as hell do have the money for good ones, but it’s the charm, you know, there’s something about windows that don’t close all the way, don’t you think, hey, are you listening to me, don’t you agree, and this reminds me, have I ever told you about that time-,

\- being caught on a poor excuse of a spaceship with blue red dwarves and mutinies and them-who-might-or-might-not-come-in-peace. Probably the latter, really. That’s just your luck, and you never minded, he never minded, and at least the radio reception is good.

It’s you and him against the world...

(don’t put the ‘you’ first, you goddamn egoist)

((-and what else might your love be, if not egoism, crudely disguised as some sort of affection; _terribly … sorry, I’m not good at … displaying it, none of us a-re_ -; draw the words out, it’s how you do things-))

...until there is someone else.

She doesn’t like him at first, and you take them both on missions because it amuses you, and they end up calling each other by their first name, Alana, Daniel. Maxwell and Mr. Jacobi, when you’re the one doing the talking, and more often than not, you are, you like the sound of your voice.

You think they might be best friends and then don’t think further about it, it doesn’t concern you as long as it doesn’t affect your work. (It doesn’t affect your work, might affect you a little, the way he smiles at her and laughs and leans into her touches and hugs her and bickers with her and falls asleep leaned against her side, melting into her, the way his eyes seem just a little brighter whenever he’s talking to her.)

It’s only fair. Your love is loud in all the ways their friendship isn’t. The fact that whatever they have is strictly platonic should reassure you, perhaps, a little, maybe, but it doesn’t, it leaves a tight knot where your throat is supposed to be, and you continue to take them both on missions.

Your life is a blur of violence demolition deconstruction sleepless nights his sweaty skin against yours 

(it’s easy if you don’t think much about it, easier if you’re not a good person)

which is to say.

Your life is good.

His sweaty skin against yours, his heavy breathing against your shoulder and in your ear and entering your bloodstream like the cheap whiskey he likes to drink until you’re dizzy from nothing but the impossible closeness, your own voice, terribly shaky, terrifyingly honest, murmuring his name and stifling moans into the crook of his neck and almost - almost - biting out a _please_ , it’s on the tip of your tongue ( _pl-_ ) and hurts your throat while you swallow it down, does he notice like you noticed his shaky hands back then, in the dimly-lit room of a sub-basement?

It’s a little fucked up, even you can see that, how he calls you ‘sir’ even while fucking, how wrong it feels to touch him, gently, clumsily so, you’re trying, kissing him after you’re done, and he smiles for just a split-second and turns his head away, and you wonder what exactly this is to him, wonder whether he loves you and just pretends not to because your love is like a war cry, or maybe he just really doesn’t, you’ll never find out, the SI-5 doesn’t talk about their feelings, the SI-5 doesn’t _do_ feelings, a little fucked up.

(In cheap hotel room beds and against walls and with Maxwell in the next room over and with Maxwell in the same room, that’s how close they are, that’s how fucked up this is, you don’t mind, it’s easy when you don’t think about it, easier when you’re a bad person.)

Your life is good.

Your life is good.

You like your job and you like your team, and to be honest, fuck Mr. Cutter-

“Warren, I know these two are, mhh, let’s say, dear to you.” / “Warren, I know Daniel is something like your _pet project_.” / “Warren, taking Alana with you does make sense.” / “But.” / “This mission is of utmost importance, as I’m sure you’re aware, Warren.” / “So, tell me, Warren, what do you need _Daniel_ for?” / “... Ah. I _see_. You don’t, actually, do you?” / Smiles and sunshine and laughter and chuckling and his damn chai latte and you’re terrified, for just a second, of him and of the fact that you’d do anything he says without hesitation, and you look at him and think you might be a little in love with him, too, and then you spend a few seconds terrified by _that_ , fuck this, fuck Mr. Cutter, to be honest

-you’ll damn sure take them both up there with you.

And then Maxwell is dead.

It’s easy if you don’t think about it. Easier if - _when_ …………

_Fuck._

While the others are playing Funzo, before Maxwell dies, you lie.

You lie, because that’s what you do, you lie and tell Eiffel that Goddard has taken everything from you. Merry Christmas, happy birthday, always glad to disillusion someone. That’s what you do, when you’re not lying interrogating killing breaking breaking things and people (and you realize entirely too late that he’s better at it than you are) and really, what bothers you the most is that you’re bothered about the fact that you don’t care. It takes you a good three minutes to untangle this thought until it makes sense, and even when it does, it doesn’t really, and you miss your scotch.

(It’s not that you hate yourself, but you respect yourself just enough to not direct your own love at yourself, either.)

Jacobi telling Minkowski to shoot you doesn’t surprise you all too much, but the realization that your heart is still extant enough for you to feel hurt betrayed amused does.


End file.
